<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Fitness Assessment by paintstroke</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28519512">Fitness Assessment</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintstroke/pseuds/paintstroke'>paintstroke</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Generation Kill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Diet, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Food, Impostor Syndrome, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, M/M, Sparring, Weight, happiness, no homophobia because I make the rules in this AU, personal trainer au, professional relationship takes priority over pining, vague hint of plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:14:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28519512</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintstroke/pseuds/paintstroke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Signing the contract brings a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Nate: a leading role in a movie helmed by his favorite director. A dream come true for a former theater kid, who’s background roles so far have been less than notable. This movie? This could change everything. </p><p>Except he has four months to attain an impossible body — a superhero’s physique. And distractingly, the personal trainer his studio assigns Nate to is incredibly attractive…</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brad Colbert/Nate Fick</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Loose Lips Sink Ships Prompt Meme</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fitness Assessment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b> For the LLSS prompt:</b> Nate is an actor. Brad is his studio-appointed personal trainer to beat him into shape for his upcoming career-making action-blockbuster.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>The rising sun reminds him that it’s early, glaring through the windshield as Nate tries to navigate the unfamiliar neighborhood, squinting at the addresses as he looks for the gym the studio had assigned him to. He nearly misses the small numbers above the door. He swears as he turns into an unassuming strip mall. At least at 6:13 am there’s plenty of parking.</p><p>Nate double checks his clock, assessing the actual time it took him compared to Google’s guess. He drums his hands on the steering wheel, looking around and trying not to feel out of place. The residential streets he’d driven through to get there had been upscale; all high stucco fences barely holding back lush green vegetation. There’s a small sign that gives the name of the gym, but unlike the typical gyms his Groupon passes gave him access to, there’s no glass windows, no sign of what to actually expect inside.</p><p>Nate waits in the car until he’s only five minutes early, then heads in. He doesn’t want to seem too eager.</p><p>He wants to pretend he belongs here as long as he possibly can.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>One of the most beautiful men Nate has ever seen is sitting at the front desk. He catches Nate’s eyes as he walks through the frosted glass door and offers a polite smile. He’s all dark hair and sculpted cheekbones, looking like he should be working as a model instead of acting as a receptionist in a high-class gym.</p><p>He picks up a phone and holds a finger up, indicating Nate should wait.</p><p>Nate obeys. There’s a familiar twist of anxiety in hit gut, a moment or two when he’s sure he’ll be told to leave. The casting had been a mistake; he can’t be serious about playing a superhero; he wasn’t ever going to belong here; he should leave immediately.</p><p>The air conditioning makes the sweat on his palms turn clammy. Everything is in shades of white except for the plants. The reception area looks more like a spa than a gym.</p><p>The click of a door makes Fick turn. The man that walks in is tall and blond. He’s not classically pretty, not in the way the brown haired man behind the desk is, but he’s just as compelling, if not more. There’s a rugged confidence to him that Nate immediately likes.</p><p>Nate’s never been more sure he’s out of his league.</p><p>“You must be Mr. Fick,” the blond introduces himself. “I’m Brad.”</p><p>“Nate. Pleasure,” Nate manages.</p><p>Nate is 6’1. Since he hit his growth spurt, he has never felt <em>small</em>. Next to Brad, that changes. Brad is a little taller, a little broader, but it’s the way he carries himself make Nate feel like he has to look further up than he actually does.</p><p>It’s unsettling, to say the least.</p><p>“Come on through to my office.”</p><p>Nate follows. Brad slips into the chair behind the desk, leaving his legs sprawled out. His eyes could cut through glass, and seemed ready to dissect Nate where he stood awkwardly holding his gym bag.</p><p>“So I’ve gotten the same character descriptions as you likely have,” Brad said. He smile. “Don’t worry too much. Your studio has given us a lot more time than I usually have. It’s going to be intense, but I’m confident that you can reach the outlined goals.”</p><p>Nate nods. “I hope so.” It was a lot of muscle that needed to be packed on. Despite what Brad said, four months didn’t seem like nearly long enough. He’d always been lean rather than bulky, but Colbert was famous for getting results.</p><p>“Let me see what I’m working with.”</p><p>Brad tugs at his own t-shirt and lifts his eyebrows.</p><p>Clear enough. Nate pulls off his shirt. Usually he was pretty proud of his body but under Brad’s cool stare…</p><p>Brad doesn’t react. He doesn’t comment. His gaze travels over Nate and Nate feels like he’s under a microscope.</p><p>“We’ll take some measurements today. Take your shoes off and get on the scale.”</p><p>“Right,” Nate says, ears heating up. He feels like this is on him, that he should have prepared more.</p><p>When Nate glances back at Brad, the cold demeanor falls away. Brad seems to pick up on his unease. “You’re starting from a good place,” he says, reassuringly.</p><p>Nate starts to understand the reputation that Colbert has.</p><p>Brad offers a grin that pulls on one side of his lips and Nate wonders why his reputation failed to take into account how incredibly attractive Brad was.</p><p>In the first fifteen minutes, he understands some other things about Brad, too. Brad likes numbers, likes facts. He makes comments about graphing progress, about Nate not looking at a scale for the next six weeks, that it doesn’t matter. He marks down everything carefully on a computerized spreadsheet, but takes additional notes by hand.</p><p>Brad’s nothing if not professional. His hands move lightly over Nate’s body, and Nate stares at the wall behind him resolutely. He cringes as Brad uses the calipers on him. Nate hates many things, but feeling inadequate is at the top of his list.</p><p>“I’ll look at the numbers and set up a plan. It’ll probably be two-a-day workouts that’ll taper as you start to work with choreographers for the action scenes. Do you live in this neighborhood?”</p><p>Nate can feel his smile thin. The down payment he’d been given when he signed the contract would have allowed him to. But the thought of dropping that much money, without knowing what roles may be coming next… it was a lot. Nate can’t quite bring himself to believe that this whole thing is real. His actual neighborhood wasn’t a place where leading actors would choose to live.</p><p>“Not exactly. The director assigned me here though. He said you were the best.”</p><p><em>Your best chance, Nate,</em> actually. More emphasis on Nate’s current lack of physique than on the training.</p><p>Brad gives an easy shrug. “Mattis and I go way back.” He has a calmness to him that makes it seem like nothing will be too much trouble. “Are you okay with traveling here twice a day?” Brad has a confidence that makes Nate feel like he’s in good hands, like he can relax.</p><p>Or like he could have relaxed, except that it’s distracting having a good-looking man taking his measurements, like he’s on a critical first date.</p><p>“Of course,” Nate replies. “I can do whatever you want me to.” He realizes how suggestive that could sound. He hopes his smile looks more confident than nervous as he tries to erase the sound of his own words. “The studio has assured me that this is to be my full time job. Twice a day will be fine.”</p><p>He’s out of there two hours later, with a collection of new fitness gear and a meal plan that seems like enough to feed three people.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“How’d it go?” Ray asks, leaning his head back on the beat up old couch, blankets hiding the worst of the tears. The TV in front of him is propped on a large Tupperware storage pin, a pair of pliers jammed in where a dial should have been to change the channel. It’s a relic. But it had been free. And Ray had been able to engineer some sort of tangle of wires that allowed him to play video games on it.</p><p>“Fine, I guess,” Nate goes to the fridge to grab a drink. He pins his ‘menu’ to the fridge door with the teenage mutant ninja turtle magnets, another of Ray’s contributions. Nate’s road bike leans against the wall. After the Hollywood studio, the living room feels extra dilapidated. It’s comfortable though, and as much of a home as his parents' place back out east.</p><p>“Mostly, I get to eat a lot.” He shoots a smile at Ray. “It doesn’t seem so bad.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was bad.</p><p>It wasn’t that the food itself was bad, but the constant need to eat something else was leeching any possible enjoyment from it.</p><p>“That can’t be what they actually want you to do,” Ray says, staring in horrified fascination as Nate makes yet another smoothie after breakfast. Nate regards the blender with a mixture of loathing and contempt.</p><p>“Feel free to let me know if you’re reading my instructions any differently,” Nate says, bitterness creeping into his voice as he watches the protein powder disappear in a whir of bananas and milk.</p><p>When the noise of the motor cuts out, Ray’s still talking. “— make it a youtube channel. ‘Things Nate eats’. When you’re famous people will love that shit. Hell, it might even make you famous. Uh, more famous, I mean. Oh — do it shirtless!”</p><p>Nate glares at Ray. He screws the lid onto his travel container and heads out.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Errands keep him out in the afternoon, and by the time his second workout session is done, he’s ready to just drop onto the couch. Or into bed. Brad’s a sadist.</p><p>When he opens the front door, there’s a stack of Ray’s instruments mostly blocking his way. Nate edges past them warily, aching and hoping desperately that all of Ray’s bandmates actually show up to help him get them down to a van and that he won’t be roped into it.</p><p>“Tuesday night gig?” he asks.</p><p>“At the ballroom,” Ray confirms, lugging another amp from his room. “Wanna come?”</p><p>Nate glances at the clock. He needs to be at the gym by 6 am. “You know I’d love to…”</p><p>Ray gives an incredibly fake, squished up smile and nods, showing exactly how much he believed that.</p><p>“More torture tomorrow morning?” He asks.</p><p>“Yeah, Monday to Friday. Twice a day.”</p><p>“That sucks, homes.”</p><p>Nate’s smile is ironic. “Could be worse.” He’s definitely being paid more for this than waiting tables, and he’s got a ton more time to himself, when he can bring himself to move.</p><p>And his trainer is devastatingly attractive.</p><p>“What’s that look for?” Ray asks from across the room.</p><p>Nate’s smile disappears. “Hmm?”</p><p>“Oh no, I saw that,” Ray says. “That was a Nate’s-thinking-of-sex look. A rarity, these days. Followed by the expected oh-shit-how-did-Ray-possibly-see-that and how-many-hail-Mary’s-will-get-me-into-heaven-after-checking-out-those-ankles looks. Conclusion: guilty as fuck, my man.” He leans on the couch next to Nate’s shoulder. “Who’s the hottie?”</p><p>If Nate admits it he knows he’ll never hear the end of it. He’s got four months of training to get through. He won’t survive it if Ray knows just where his mind is — he’ll end up in jail for murder. He doesn’t need fame that badly.</p><p>Ray doesn’t drop it. “Is it someone famous? Would I know him? Oooh are you training with Brad Pitt, homes?”</p><p>Nate feels his face go white at the first name, and has to laugh it off. “I wish I was training with someone else.” No, he had to endure all of Brad’s attention focused thoroughly on him. He can tell that Ray is winding up for something else and has a moment of panic.</p><p>“Is that the door?” Nate asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly.</p><p>Ray fires him a betrayed look when Nate gets up. “The rest of the band’s not going to be here until like, eight, man, Nate — Nate! NATE!”</p><p>Nate shuts the door to his bedroom behind him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate is exhausted. Brad ends up giving him the afternoon off, switching their schedule from two-a-days to a once-a-day workouts on Wednesdays. Brad had assured him that recovery was just as important as the actual workouts, but it still feels like a failure. He couldn’t keep up.</p><p>Brad was still finding old injuries, things he’d frown at while Nate ran through a series of deadlifts or sled pushes, asking Nate to try something again and again before announcing that there was something wrong with his range of motion, and putting him on the vertical climber or torturing him with foam rollers as he adjusted something minute, seemingly trying to detach and shift tendons with the press of his fingers.</p><p>An ankle Nate had twisted as a teenager apparently hadn’t healed correctly. Or his posture was ‘shit’ and his shoulders rolled forward too much.</p><p>Nothing escaped Brad’s eye.</p><p>It was strange to not have to head out again to meet Brad.</p><p>Ray finally makes an appearance in the early afternoon. Ray shuffles towards the kitchen, in pajamas and a ‘Couch Slut’ t-shirt, hair rumpled and still looking half asleep.</p><p>Nate listens to the familiar sounds of Ray starting the coffee brewing. Ray drops onto the couch beside him, a fluorescent pink and green bowl filled with cereal.</p><p>“Homes, it’s almost 1:30,” Ray says. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”</p><p>“I got demoted.” Nate tosses Ray a wry smile. “Apparently I need more recovery time.” He couldn’t figure out a way to make it into a joke.</p><p>Ray snorts anyways. “You sure this is an action movie?” He glances over to where Nate is sprawled on the couch with his laptop, full plate resting beside him. It didn’t feel like it.</p><p>That uncertain feeling gnawed at his gut. He wasn’t in the right place. He shoves his self-conscious deprecations down deep inside, finding a confident look. “Recovery is an essential aspect of training,” Nate says, certain that he’s quoting someone.</p><p>“Uh huh,” Ray drawls. “Totes.”</p><p>Nate hides his frustration as best he can. It’s the same thing he’s been thinking. They have a limited amount of time and the studio wants him to have an impossible body.</p><p>He wonders if Brad is speaking to the studio execs now; letting them know how inadequate Nate is for this role. He slumps into the couch. “How was the show, anyway?” he asks, hoping that Ray will distract him.</p><p>Ray never disappoints.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mike Wynn is his agent because Mike’s never steered him wrong. He has the connections that got Nate his recent gig. And Nate always made a point of listening to what he had to say. Even when it was unexpected.</p><p>“Have you thought about getting someone to do your PR?”</p><p>Nate stared down at his phone for a moment. “Not really. Can’t that wait until uh, things get bigger?” “It’s never a bad idea to get out in front of anything. Get a positive spin on your image. Make sure that it’s out there, so that there are things to find when this movie gets big.”</p><p>“What things?”</p><p>“Find a PR person to answer that - but whatever’s big right now. Instagram, Twitter, MySpace, whatever. Make a presence. Post some in progress training shots or something. They’ll love it.”</p><p>“No one knows who I am yet,” Nate says, eying the shelves of the fridge. He aches from training, and all he wants to do is shower and sleep but if he doesn’t eat something now, he won’t not make his daily count.</p><p>“Make sure they’ll be able to find out when they want to, Nate. You’re going to need to sell yourself. If you’re the one who decides what the product it, it’s always better.”</p><p>“I’ll think about it,” Nate promises.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It starts to feel real when Nate gets the script delivered. It’s divided into parts, this is apparently the first of the scenes they’ll be shooting before they leave LA. He gives a sigh of relief that it didn’t get stolen from his mailbox before he reminds himself to check his ego. He’s not the famous name in this movie.</p><p>He flips through it, running through it in the mirror of the bathroom. He speaks under his breath, mouthing the lines as he tries to get the gist of the scene without really seeing the whole thing.</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>He gets called in for a table read. It’s the first time he’ll be meeting some of the other actors, and he feels nervous. Impostor syndrome hits hard.</p><p>He settles around the table. It looks like any board room or meeting room from University. He shares a quick smile with the others at the table and picks up the script. He’s got this, he tells himself. This is what he was born to do.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He knows in his heart he hasn’t done well. He’s been a bundle of nerves the whole read. He tucks his script into his messenger bag and leaves the room. In his head he’s already seeing the black outfits and white cloth over his arm: he’ll be back to waiting tables in a week or two. They’ll take his advance back. They’ll rip up the contract, say he wasn’t up to the task, they should have known—</p><p>Nate’s thoughts are stormy as he heads out of the room. He’d hoped that taking him time packing up would mean that certain people would have left, but he wasn’t that lucky today.</p><p>Griego gives him a dark look, then turns back to the Director. Mattis. A famous name; half of Nate’s video collection as a kid had been his work. Griego speaks in a hushed tone, guiding Mattis down the hallway in the other direction.</p><p>He only catches snippets of Griego’s rapid-fire criticisms, but it’s enough.</p><p>—casting made a mistake—</p><p>—no chemistry between the leads—</p><p>—Craig’s ready to step in—</p><p>Nate shoulders his way through the other lingering actors, not ready to deal with hearing that. He trudges to the back of the parking lot and throws his car into drive.</p><p>It’s frustrating. So damn frustrating.</p><p>He gets back to the apartment and throws his keys onto the sideboard by the door. The gesture isn’t as satisfying as it should be.</p><p>The apartment is empty, and for a moment, he thinks longingly of heading out to some shitty dive bar, downing too many shots, and forgetting about everything.</p><p>But alcohol is definitely not on his permitted foods list.</p><p>He resigns himself to going over the script again, trying to take in the comments about the character. He ends up on internet forums, finding the fan recommendations and ordering a stack of too-expensive comic books from one of the local stores.</p><p>He just need to figure out a different plan of attack. He’s got this.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He hadn’t slept well. Nate grimaces at the dark circles under his eyes as he gives himself a quick once-over in the mirror in the hall. He’d been plagued with more dreams of failure, of taking down the movie with his mistakes.</p><p>Today, the road to the gym seems to be populated by idiots changing lanes at the last minute, no signals. He has to slam on his brakes more than once. And when he finally gets to the gym, there’s no parking space. He grinds his teeth and circles the block, knowing he’ll be late. He has a vague sensation of it not mattering. Despite his contract, he’s certain he’s going to fail.</p><p>For a brief moment he considers taking out his anger on the dashboard of his beat up little car.</p><p>He takes a breath and re-centers himself. He has a job. One job: look like a goddamned superhero. He can focus on that. One step at a time. He’s not going to give up before they kick him out.</p><p>He walks back to the gym.</p><p>It’s Rudy at the desk again, who whistles when Nate walks in. Brad appears in the back doorway, tilting his chin. Nate goes to join him. He hurries to catch up, and starts heading towards the cardio room. It’s his typical warm up routine, no matter what else they end up doing.</p><p>He bikes for ten minutes, and is feeling more like himself when Brad calls time.</p><p>Nate slings his towel across the back of his neck and heads towards the weight room, mentally preparing for the mindless repetition of squats and deadlifts and curls.</p><p>Brad watches him, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. “Where are you going, sir?” he teases, formally.</p><p>Nate looks at Brad, then looks back down the hallway. “Not to the weight room?” he guesses.</p><p>Brad shakes his head. “Upstairs, Nate. You look like you need something else today.”</p><p>The studio room has a bounce to the flooring. The track lighting isn’t too bright and it feels cozy, like one of the fancy yoga studios that seem to be trending.</p><p>Brad heads to one of the mirrors and presses the side, revealing a hidden closet. He drags out tri-folded padding and sets the Velcro together efficiently.</p><p>“What are you setting up?” Nate asks. Sometimes it’s just easier to ask.</p><p>“How much hand-to-hand experience do you have?” Brad asks.</p><p>Nate smiles ruefully. “Next to none, so far. I’ll be meeting with a choreographer for the fight scenes, but that won’t be for another few months.”</p><p>“Then we’ll start with how to breathe.”</p><p>Nate laughs, then realizes that Brad isn’t kidding.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“How’s your hottie?” Ray calls when he gets home.</p><p>Nate ignores him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>After a week of fundamentals, Brad starts to spar with him. It’s a welcome distraction from the tediousness of the weight room. Nate looks forward to it for that, and tries to tell himself that that’s the only reason.</p><p>It’s maybe also because Brad doesn’t pull his moves.</p><p>“You’re my employee, right?” Nate asks, narrowing his eyes from where he’s laid out flat on his back. He takes a moment to catch his breath, to try to calm his heart rate. The exercise is one thing. Having Brad pressed close is a whole other story.</p><p>“The <em>studio</em> employs me,” Brad corrects.</p><p>“So there’s no chance I can fire you?” Nate softens the words with a smile. He appreciates all of this. He really does.</p><p>Brad lifts his chin in challenge. “Get up.”</p><p>Nate drags himself to his feet.</p><p>It’s barely thirty seconds before Brad follows him down to the mats again. Nate thinks he puts up a good struggle, attempts to use some of the moves that Brad has been showing him. He still ends up pinned; Brad’s elbows around his neck and the back of his knee keeping him off balance, shoulder blades against the ground as he struggles. He tries not to imagine Brad forcing his knee to his shoulder in another context, pinning him under his weight in a bedroom.</p><p>Part of the flush on his cheeks isn’t just exertion.</p><p>He tries to catch his breath. Brad’s slow to move off him, just sitting up.</p><p>“So this is where you tell me that you’re actually a UFC fighter?” Nate pleads, hoping for some reason to explain his easy defeats.</p><p>“Retired marine, actually.”</p><p>Nate stares at the ceiling. It makes sense with what he knows of Brad.</p><p>Nate sits up and Brad moves off of his legs. He’s got half his mind on the sparring itself, and the other half trying to keep himself from reacting to Brad’s closeness.</p><p>He fails when Brad flips him and pins him face down to the mat, one hand twisted behind his back. Nate grits his teeth and tries to focus on anything but the pressure of Brad’s hand on his shoulder blade, crouching over him with his ass in the air.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate gets home after that session. His body still wants to replay the feel of Brad’s arms holding him down, pinning him in one suggestive position after another. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.</p><p>He leans on his steering wheel and tries to steel himself. He’s still half hard when he thinks of Brad’s weight against his, trying to guide him through various take-downs.</p><p>“Hook your leg through mine.” He’d almost tapped out at that comment alone.</p><p>This is going to be the death of him.</p><p>It’s been too long since he’s gotten laid but that’s not it. Or not <em>just</em> it. He considers cruising, but when he tries to picture what he wants, there’s only one person that comes to mind.</p><p>He’s so fucked.</p><p>Nate takes a moment to kill the memories before he walks into the house.</p><p>All he wants to do is disappear, so of course Ray’s bandmates are over.</p><p>Nate manages a smile that he hopes is more friendly than he feels. “Hey!”</p><p>There’s a chorus of friendly replies.</p><p>As always, Nate makes his first stop the fridge. He hopes that they sense his vibes and leave him alone. He could really use a long bath.</p><p>Ray’s replaced the magnets with cartoon superheroes. From the 80’s cartoon version of Nate’s upcoming movie. Nate makes a face at the fridge. He can feel the diet working, he knows he’s putting on weight, but it doesn’t feel like muscle. He still doesn’t have the cut, chiseled abs featured through the lyrca of the magnet version of the character. He just feels heavy. And tired.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Despite everything, Ray’s perceptive.</p><p>However, what Ray chooses to do with his powers of perception isn’t always aligned with what’s best for Nate.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“It’s a clean bulk…” Nate says again. “I can’t just…”</p><p>“Sure you can.” Ray slops a shot glass down beside Nate. “Look man, I checked. It’s got… like, 97 calories. That’s 97 calories you don’t need to get from whatever monstrosity your dinner is supposed to be, He-man. Just do it, homes.”</p><p>“It’s Thursday.” Nate says, like that should be an answer in itself. An answer not readily apparent to Ray Person, who nods, and pours a second shot.</p><p>Nate’s room is starting to smell like what he imagines a pirate’s hold would have. He barely restrains himself from finding a rag to clean up before Ray is done with his mess-making.</p><p>“C’mon, do one with your old pal Ray-ray.”</p><p>It had been an incredibly shitty week. Nate hesitates.</p><p>“Just one,” he says. The shotglass is wet, coating his fingers in rum when he lifts it. Ray tilts the other in a messy ‘cheers’.</p><p>“It’s been too long!” Ray whoops as Nate tosses back the rum.</p><p>Nate’s throat burns. “Fuck. What the hell are you drinking?”</p><p>“Can’t all be high-rolling actor-fellows like you, homes. It was on sale at the Beverage Warehouse.” Ray claps a hand across Nate’s shoulders and steers him back towards the living room.</p><p>Nate looks back at his bedroom. There’s laundry he needs to do and he still wants to go to bed early. But the hazy warmth of the rum is giving a pleasant relaxing feeling. He should say hi.</p><p>One more shot won’t hurt.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Just like that, baby,” Ray says cheerfully. “Let me see the money shot.”</p><p>Nate blinks blearily at the red light and tries to figure out what Ray means. Everything has fuzzy edges.</p><p>Ray rambles on. “This is my friend Nate Fick! Wave at the camera, Nate!”</p><p>Nate lifts a hand unsteadily. The room seems to swim to the other side. He replaces his hand on the counter, carefully. It seems to act as an anchor. He tells himself not to move it again.</p><p>“Close enough.”</p><p>Ray turns the camera around so that he could speak into it himself. “So, he’s gotta like, bulk up for this Very Important Action movie you may have heard of, right? Okay, note to self here, add in some shots of a fucking six egg omelet and three chicken breast dinners and those fucking piles of vegetables that could feed a horse—” He adjusts the phone again so that it’s centered on Nate. “So! Nate, what does your drill sergeant have you eating today?”</p><p>“Uh…” Nate tries to remember. Ray immediately interrupts.</p><p>“Oh hey! Take your shirt off!”</p><p>Nate hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t feel hot. Not on this diet, not even with all the workouts he’s been doing.</p><p>But Ray nods encouragingly. Ray is dead set on what he’s doing, and at this point, it’s easier to just follow his lead. Decisions are difficult.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The room around him is wrong. He shouldn’t be waking up in the living room. Nate lifts a hand to his head. He regrets letting Ray talk him into those shots. One had turned into far too many.</p><p>His elbow crunches into some sort of plastic bag. Nate shifts and pulls a package of Cheetos from his side. There are bright orange imprints on his shirt and the couch. He drops it onto the floor and collapsed again, praying for the darkness to take him.</p><p>He can’t sleep any longer, though. He misses the days of being 21. He tries to sit up, and wondered if there was a word stronger than ‘regret’ when the room spun.</p><p>He staggers up to find his phone. There are the remains of what look like six different milkshakes in the kitchen. He stares at them a moment, then decides that maybe he doesn’t want to know. He grabs his phone and collapses into his blissfully cool bed.</p><p>“Feeling sick today,” Nate mumbles into the phone, trying to keep his head from pounding with a hand at his temple.</p><p>“Do you actually want this part?” Brad’s voice is low and dangerous.</p><p>Fear is surprisingly good at sobering you up. Nate tries not to move too quickly but he sits up. “I want this more than anything,” he says.</p><p>“Then you’re damned well going to show up and put the work in.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate’s guilt made Brad seem even more intense than usual. “Meet me at the stairmaster,” Brad says flatly. Nate groans internally. He moves slowly, reluctantly putting the dark glasses he’d borrowed from Ray into his locker. He staggers out of the dressing room. He’d hoped it’d be the treadmill, something where he could fake enthusiasm and hope that the alcohol would sweat out quickly.</p><p>He barely manages to not throw up, but he feels like it’s a close call.</p><p>He manages to make his way through the various free weight repetitions, dropping down a few levels from what he’d managed the day before. Brad’s frown makes it apparent what he’s thinking, although he remains verbally encouraging.</p><p>He’s still feeling like utter shit when Brad finally releases him.</p><p>He’s showered and changed and is attempting to slink out and call an Uber discreetly, but when he passes Brad’s office, Brad calls him in.</p><p>Brad gestures to the chair in front of his desk, and Nate sits, expecting a reprimand for his shitty performance. He braces himself for it.</p><p>What Brad actually says is, “If you’re going to cheat, you should cover your tracks better.”</p><p>Brad pulls up something on his phone, briefly flashing it at Nate.</p><p>Nate freezes, recognizing himself on the screen but having no memory of the actual events. He doesn’t think it’s possible for him to go paler, but the room seems to spin. It feels like the end of his career. If this is out there…</p><p>“He didn’t…” Nate looks over at Brad in disbelief.</p><p>Brad twists his mouth to the side and nods.</p><p>“Fucking hell.”</p><p>Nate needs to talk to his agent.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate pays the Uber and staggers back through his front door.</p><p>Ray is lying on the living room floor, his feet up on the couch. There’s a guitar halfheartedly across his torso, but he seems to just be making vague impressions of playing in the air above it.</p><p>“I hate you,” Nate mutters fondly. He has maybe four hours before he needs to be back for his second workout session, and he’s not sure if he’ll survive.</p><p>Ray flashes him a hang-loose surfing sign.</p><p>Nate trudges towards the bathroom, hoping that (1) the bathtub is clean and (2) that he can soak undisturbed for a few hours.</p><p>“No protein shake?” Ray asks.</p><p>Nate glances back towards the couch. He can just see Ray’s mismatched socks. It’s not worth it to give him the finger. Nate does it anyway, with a savage satisfaction.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“My trainer saw your video,” Nate says. After a soak and breakfast he feels vaguely human-shaped again.</p><p>Ray raised his eyebrows. “Did he like it?”</p><p>Nate gives Ray a disappointed look.</p><p>In the end, he gets a text an hour before he’s supposed to be at the gym.</p><p>Brad Colbert 12:38 pm Friday</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
<p></p><blockquote><p>Take a recovery afternoon. See you Monday. Come hungover again and you’ll regret it.</p></blockquote></blockquote><p>Nate winces, and wonders what exactly he’s feeling now if it isn’t regret.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Nate, brah… You and I both know that the studios didn’t exactly skimp on your advance.”</p><p>Nate agreed, cautiously. “What’s this about?”</p><p>“Okay, like, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might want to think about like, getting a slightly nicer place. It doesn’t need to be crazy, but like, people are going to want to have something to look up to, right? You’re living like a broke college student.”</p><p>More about the damned video then, since that’s the only way anyone could see the inside of his apartment. Nate looks around his place. “Where I live is… sufficient.”</p><p>There’s a heartfelt sigh on the other end of the line. “You realize you’ve got to sell like a Hollywood look, right?”</p><p>Nate didn’t have to agree. “Can you promise me there’ll be another movie after this?”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“No? Well maybe it’s just the smart thing to not blow the first significant check I get on something I won’t be able to maintain.”</p><p>“Fake it til you make it, brah. Think about it.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>His PR guy calls him back the next week. “What I said before, ignore it, brah.”</p><p>“About my place?” Nate hasn’t had too much contact with Lilley other than approving him to run various social media accounts on his behalf.</p><p>“Yeah. Turns out it’s ‘relatable’. You’re a hit with the college students.”</p><p>“A… hit…” Nate tries to figure out what Lilley is talking about.</p><p>“With your dude’s videos. Is he going to make that into a series?”</p><p>Nate pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ray Person’s videos?”</p><p>“Yeah brah.”</p><p>“No,” Nate says tightly. “It’s not going to be a series. That was a mistake.”</p><p>He can hear laughter on the other end of the line. “It’s got like, twenty thousand views already and your main movie isn’t even out. Tell him to keep it going.”</p><p>Nate stares at the ceiling and wonders just what’s going to go wrong next in his life.</p><p>“I’d rather tell him to delete it.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare, brah. You’re already getting instagram followers from that link. Send me over some new photos when you can, by the way. It’s going to take off soon, like, go viral and shit. Trust me man, you’re right where you want to be.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Brad’s smile speaks of sadism. “Welcome to hell,” he says teasingly, marking the halfway point of his program.</p><p>Nate grins in reply. “This may sound a bit stupid but I’m looking forward to it.”</p><p>It’ll be a challenge, harder than he’s pushed himself before. And to tell the truth, he’s sick and tired of choking down protein shakes. He’ll be glad to not have to force himself to eat.</p><p>Brad’s gaze on him is cool, and Nate once again wonders if he’s passing whatever test is in Brad’s mind.</p><p>“I’ll remind you of that,” Brad says calmly.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate’s enjoyment doesn’t last too long.</p><p>Six meals a day initially sounds like a lot, but the plates are barely two bites. He gets used to a gnawing ache in his stomach.</p><p>His body complains. He feels like he’s irritated all the time. All he can think about is food. He watches Ray eat like a possessive vulture, before he decides it’s better to be out of the house entirely when his housemate eats real food.</p><p>“Make sure you get at least an hour of cardio before you show up here.” Even Brad’s orders begin to test his resolve. “Silver Lake isn’t a bad loop if you’re willing to put up with people.”</p><p>Nate tries it. It’s a few days of dodging around people in designer outfits more interested in coffee and chatting than running. His curt ‘coming up on your left’ begins to want to morph into something less polite.</p><p>Three days later Nate asks, “What’s another option?”</p><p>“Meet me here and I’ll show you.” Brad texts an address. Nate drives there the next morning. It’s out of his way, but the trails through the rolling hills are more sparsely traveled.</p><p>It starts a comfortable routine. Somehow, the early mornings make it simpler, as if there was nothing else to do at 5 am than roll out of bed and meet Brad for a run.</p><p>Brad sends him more messages - usually just an address or GPS with a time. Nate dutifully follows them.</p><p>He looks forward to their runs.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Brad pushes him hard enough that his focus narrows to lengthening his strides, to breathing — in steadily, out steadily. One two three four.</p><p>Brad also seems to know which areas are out of the way. The trails add something else. Nate has to watch his feet, roots and uneven ground adding an extra challenge. Brad, the sadist, keeps speeding up on the uphill bits.</p><p>Nate grits his teeth and reminds himself to watch the ground instead of Brad’s long strides.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate’s getting ready in the morning, trying to keep quiet as he pulls on his running gear and throws what he needs into a bag. He’s exhausted and his stomach is cramping. He’s not sure he’ll make it through this run. He doesn’t have the energy for anything.</p><p>He sneaks out of his room.</p><p>It turns out he didn’t need to though, Ray’s in the living room with the TV room on.</p><p>“You’re up early,” Nate says, heading to the fridge to grab water. He throws a pan on the stove, starts it heating. He sets up his shot of lemon juice, ginger, and cayenne while he waits.</p><p>Ray makes some sort of a noise. “Haven’t been to bed yet homes,” he calls back at a volume that suggests his hearing has been blown out at a gig.</p><p>The shot burns, but he’s used to it by now.</p><p>“Good show?” Nate calls at a similar level. He throws in spinach and egg whites, missing dairy intently. And carbs. God, what he wouldn’t do for carbs…</p><p>Ray shrugs. “Just a bunch of dudes in the audience, no chicks. Kinda sucked, my man.” He brightened a bit. “We did have a mosh pit for a while though!”</p><p>Nate laughs, but with sympathy. “I’m sure.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate stares blankly at the ceiling above the weight machine. The tiles are pristine. He wants to put his fist through them.</p><p>The cutting phase is brutal.</p><p>“Don’t make me sic Rudy on you,” Brad teases. “One more rep.”</p><p>Nate’s arms are burning when he lifts the bar. Ten seems an impossible number to get to.</p><p>He’s not going to give up, though.</p><p>Nate’s arms keep shaking. The ceiling tiles start to blur. He’s not sure that it makes sense to keep going. He pushes up and his lift is uneven, the bar wobbling.</p><p>He realizes he hasn’t moved in too long only when the weight suddenly lessens.</p><p>Brad grabs hold of the bar and settles it into the rests. “You alright there?” he asks, a little uncertain.</p><p>Nate wonders why he’s asking that. Everything feels a bit different. He drops his arms. They feel gummy, useless. “I don’t know,” he says bleakly. “I don’t know if this is right for me.”</p><p>Brad’s hand is warm on his shoulder. Brad is crouched next to the weight bench, and when Nate turns to look at him he realizes that the feeling on his cheek is a tear slipping from the corner of his eye. He’d feel embarrassed if he were still part of his body, but he’s detached from his corporeal form.</p><p>Brad’s fingers tighten. “Alright. Go shower, get changed. We’re going to dinner.”</p><p>Nate stares at Brad, not quite comprehending. “We’re not done,” he says. They have more reps.</p><p>“You’re done.” Brad quirks a smile. “I make the rules, remember? Go make yourself presentable.”</p><p>Nate’s still moving slowly after he showers. He sits on one of the benches, wrapped in a towel, and dries his hair. It’s at an awkward length, and if he were just going home, he’d let it be, but going out? He stares dully at the array of gratuities on display. He borrows some of the mousse to keep it from his face, and hopes that his casual clothes are acceptable.</p><p>He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not one of the elite few. He doesn’t have brand name clothing or a stylist or any idea of what he’s supposed to be doing.</p><p>It’s easier when Brad is critiquing every little movement, adjusting him from his stance to his breathing to his fingers. Left on his own he’s a mess.</p><p>He shoulders his gym bag and walks down to the trainer’s office.</p><p>The door makes a hollow sound as he raps on it. “Yeah, come in,” Brad calls, and Nate pushes inside.</p><p>Brad’s dressed in leather and kevlar, looking down as he straps his gloves on. “Finally ready?” The way he smiles takes the sting out of the words.</p><p>“Maybe.” Nate isn’t sure if the last request made sense or if he was so calorie deprived that he’d hallucinated it.</p><p>“Good.” Brad continues as if Nate had agreed whole-heartedly. He picks up his phone. “You got the directions?”</p><p>Nate digs his own phone out of his pocket. “Uh. Yeah. Got your message.” It’s a location. It has an address, so it’s not as cryptic as the GPS coordinates of a trailhead. He doesn’t recognize it though. “What is it?” he asks.</p><p>“Dinner,” Brad says again. “We’re going out.”</p><p>Nate raises an eyebrow. “You know I can’t—”</p><p>Brad smiles. “Rules, Nate, rules. I make them here. And this? This is the perfect cheat day.”</p><p>Brad edges past Nate and out the door while the words are still sinking in.</p><p>Due to shitty LA traffic, the drive takes them a while. Well, to be more accurate, it takes Nate a while. Heading out, he had caught sight of Brad weaving in between lanes of traffic and had decidedly tried not to watch. He didn’t like the way it made his heart race with worry. That had been a while ago.</p><p>When he gets to the address, he finds a space to park and hurries to the entrance. He can see Brad’s motorcycle, but not Brad.</p><p>“I’m meeting someone?” he guesses when he approaches the hostess. “Brad should already be here.”</p><p>There’s a nod.</p><p>Nate gets led to a small booth. There are cloth drapes that separate the seats from the rest of the restaurant, and thick black menus. A tiny stack of papers and two pencils sit on the table.</p><p>The little booth suddenly seems intimate, almost too small for the two of them. Their legs are long, and as they get comfortable Nate is hyperaware whenever his outer thigh brushes against Brad’s knee.</p><p>Brad looks like someone else entirely in his leather jacket. No gym clothes. No track suit. No running shorts. Just Brad in a simple t-shirt and a jacket that’ll haunt Nate’s dreams. “What is this?” Nate asks, bemused.</p><p>It looks like a date, and once that idea gets into his head it takes root. Part of him knows he should rip it from his mind. Brad’s his studio-appointed trainer, and they need to maintain a professional relationship.</p><p>Brad has a lot of different smiles, but the one he graces Nate with is actually kind. “It’s a cheat day. Order whatever you want.”</p><p>“Is this a test?” Nate asks warily.</p><p>Brad raises an eyebrow and lifts up his menu. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Am I supposed to turn this down, to prove I’m dedicated enough to be here?”</p><p>Brad huffs a laugh. “Nate, no one is questioning your dedication. I have absolute faith that you’ll put in the work to get to where the studio wants you to be.”</p><p>Nate picks up one of the pencils. The first marks he makes are cautious. A seaweed salad. Sashimi. Things he guesses might be acceptable. Across the table, Brad’s eyes are fixed on his own card, he’s marking down things with the focused dedication of a marine.</p><p>There are other things he wants to ask. Like if Brad takes other trainees out when it’s their cheat days. If this is actually a date. He can’t do anything even if it is, he doesn’t want to have to put a denial into words.</p><p>So Nate tells himself that it must be platonic. And if Brad’s gaze drops to where he’s absently mouthing the butt of the pencil, that’s just a reflection on his bad habit. He shifts the implement from his mouth and stares down at the paper where he can fill in the numbers of things that he wants.</p><p>“Whatever you’d like, Nate.” Nate’s wishes color the words with something else entirely. He gives a tight smile, and begins to write.</p><p>He’s sure he is going to be in trouble.</p><p>The waitress comes to their table. “Would you like something to drink?”</p><p>Nate flips to try to find the correct page. They usually have green tea, that’s often his second choice—</p><p>“Do you want to split a bottle of sake?” Brad asks.</p><p>Nate nearly drops the menu. Brad still isn’t looking up at him. He decides to push at the line Brad’s drawn, trying to figure out where the limits are. “It’s not my first choice, but I’d love a beer.”</p><p>“Two Asahi, then,” Brad says, and the waitress nods and moves away.</p><p>He finally lifts his eyes to meet Nate’s gaze. His blue eyes almost blaze with the intensity of it. “I mean it. Whatever you want.”</p><p>There’s a heat that burns low in Nate’s gut that has nothing to do with cravings for food. For a moment he’s viscerally reminded of sparring with Brad.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Filming starts, and his life changes yet again. The budget of the movie is insane. On set, Nate actually gets his own trailer. He snaps a picture of his name on the door and sends it to his sisters.</p><p>Inside, someone helpfully left some images from Schwetje’s last movies. Not cheap computer print-outs, but glossy 8 by 10’s. Schwetje looks ripped. Halfway through his own cut, that type of lean muscle mass still feels unobtainable.</p><p>He carefully places the photos in the trash. It’s just someone trying to get into his head. He got this part, fair and square. If the casting director didn’t like Schwetje as much, then that’s someone else’s problem. He isn’t going to let it affect him or his work.</p><p>Still, the little voice in his head is insistent. Maybe Schwetje would have been the better choice. He’d been in movies like this before. He had the physique - or close enough to it - already.</p><p>Nate popped in his earbuds and tried to drown the voices with music.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It should be exciting to travel to a location shoot. But there’s not as much free time as he’d like to explore South Africa, and they’re so remote that even getting to a city is a hassle.</p><p>Nate’s dizzy. The dehydration necessary to highlight his muscles is getting to him. He finds the shade of one of the tents and hopes that he can just rest for a few moments.</p><p>“Up and at 'em, buddy,” Brad says, painfully cheerful as he approaches Nate. It’s as if he has a dedicated radar. His eyes flick down over Nate’s body and it’s a sign of his own worn out condition that it doesn’t even inspire a reaction in Nate.</p><p>“Three reps; shoulder fly,” Brad says, as the camera crew resets behind him. Nate drags his body up; disobeying Brad has never been an option.</p><p>He’s sweating but the aides still come by and spritz him with more; make-up brushes tickle as they dart across his stomach.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>After six months without alcohol, the champagne at the wrap party hits Nate hard. It’s never been his favorite drink but he tolerates it.</p><p>“I can’t believe it’s over,” he says. He’s happy that Brad’s been included as part of the crew, and gravitates towards him. He can’t spend all night at his side, he needs to schmooze the people that might hire him next, chat with the writers and producers, thank all the people behind the camera, take the required photos with his co-stars.</p><p>But for now, he’s content to stay with Brad.</p><p>A few times he catches Brad looking at him. It makes his chest bloom with warmth.</p><p>“What are you going to do next?” Brad asks.Nate’s smile freezes in place. “You sound like my agent,” he says. He runs a hand along the back of his neck. “I might take a vacation, I guess, then I’d better start looking for the next gig.” he says. “What about you?”</p><p>“Same. Gonna head out to a place down near San Clemente and surf Trestles for a few days. Just relax.”</p><p>Nate watches the way Brad’s eyes light up. He’s faintly jealous. He wants to want something in that way.</p><p>“Do you have your next assignment all lined up?”</p><p>Brad’s smile shows bright teeth. “Oh, I’m always in demand. I pick and choose.”</p><p>The bubbles in the champagne were going right to his head. Was that a myth? Nate wondered, then decided it wasn’t, because he was asking, “So why <em>did</em> you take me on?”</p><p>He expects… he doesn’t know what he expects. He wants some insight into whatever has been developing between them. He wants a reassurance that it’s not just wishful thinking on his part.</p><p>Brad looks over at him, his smile crooked. “New guys argue less,” he says, softening the words with a hand clapped to Nate’s shoulder.</p><p>Nate smiles self-consciously.</p><p>Brad squeezes before he lets go.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The wheels of the plane touch down in LA and all of a sudden, the restrictions lift. He’s released back into the wilds; there’s no one to tell him what to eat, what to do, what to say.</p><p>Nate tries to sink back into his old life.</p><p>More often than not, he still wakes up at 5 am. He’s tying on his running shoes, and picks up his phone, but there are no GPS coordinates to plug into his car. He misses the company, but Brad’s likely still on vacation or has moved on to training someone else.</p><p>He holds his thumb over the contacts icon.</p><p>In the end, Nate talks himself out of sending a message. He doesn’t want to be that creepy guy that misunderstood professional courtesy for something more.</p><p>The buzz surrounding the movie helps his career. His agent manages to secure a few more parts that look interesting; some that even showcase his range of acting skills instead of just his body. It’s exciting.</p><p>Just not nearly exciting enough to cover up the personal trainer-sized absence from his schedule.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate gets an embossed invitation in the mail, sandwiched between coupons and flyers and bills. He chucks the rest of the mail on the table by the door. The post-production was done. The name of the film had changed slightly, but there are two tickets inside.</p><p>The producers had gone all out, renting a swanky lounge for the occasion.</p><p>He feels like he’s still in his role. The bespoke suit still fits him perfectly, setting off the wide expanse of shoulder and narrow hips that Brad had pushed him to gain in a classic style. The suit had been part of a deal his press agent had made; he’d done some advertising spreads in return. He figured it was one of the most expensive things he’d ever worn.</p><p>There’s an open bar. The waitstaff walk around the lounge with trays of canapés, and serious bartenders mix cocktails. For a moment, he feels like he’s on the wrong side of the bar, that this was all a dream and someone was going to catch him and shove him through the doors to the kitchen, putting him to work.</p><p>He drifts towards his co-stars, passing the time until he feels a familiar presence slip into the space beside him.</p><p>He knows it’s Brad before he looks.</p><p>Nate smiles. It feels like the first genuine smile he’d given all night. It’s such a relief.</p><p>“How was Trestles?” Nate asks. It’s all too easy to turn to Brad, to splinter off from the larger group. Everyone else just fades into the background when Brad’s around.</p><p>Nate could watch Brad’s smile develop for hours, the slow way that it spreads across his face. “It was good,” Brad says with a nod, acknowledging Nate remembering his plans. “Nice waves this time of year.”</p><p>He was carrying two Old Fashioneds. He passes one to Nate, raising the other in a salute.</p><p>“To the end of a successful working relationship.”</p><p>As far as toasts go, it’s rather specific. Nate raises his glass to meet Brad’s. He wonders if there’ll be any follow through, if Brad would be interested in anything now that their official capacity has ended.</p><p>“I’m glad we met,” Nate says, choosing his words cautiously. “It was good to work with you.”</p><p>Brad’s grin turns wicked. “Ah, forgetting reality already. Definitely an actor. That fame’ll go right to your head.”</p><p>Nate swears it’s the alcohol that brings the rush of heat to his neck. It had been months since he was cursing at Brad’s workout schedule. He drinks to cover how sappy he’s feeling but it makes it more of a risk that he’ll just speak his mind.</p><p>Brad studies him, and Nate slowly realizes that the intense look isn’t just about assessing fitness and the sculpt of his body. There isn’t that excuse anymore.</p><p>“You have me at a bit of a disadvantage,” Nate says. “You know a lot about me, but you haven’t said much about yourself.”</p><p>Brad smiles. “I don’t mix work and my personal life.”</p><p>"And now that I’m not a work project?</p><p>Brad laughs. “What do you want to know?”</p><p>Nate licks his lip and dodges answering for a moment by taking another sip of champagne. There’s a lot he wants to know about Brad. A lot of things that he’d kept squirreled away while they’d worked together.</p><p>He decides to start simple. “Are you single?”</p><p>Brad studies his face. A slow smile pulls at one side of his lips. “I didn’t come with anyone tonight.”</p><p>Nate shakes his head slightly, an answering smile on his face despite the evasion. “In general?”</p><p>Brad nods.</p><p>It’s the best news Nate has gotten all night.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He mingles and drinks and says the right things and chats with the right people, but everything seems to circle back to his trainer. His former trainer. He has the self control to stick to the hors d’oeuvres after his first few drinks, but maybe it’s not enough.</p><p>He’s beside Brad again and he should probably make up an excuse to go mingle with someone else, but he can’t bring himself to do that. Brad laughs at something one of the other actors was saying and turns, catching Nate just staring at Brad. Nate gives an embarrassed smile. If he drinks any more he’s going to make a move, here, in public, with plenty of gossips around.</p><p>“I need to get some air,” Nate says, deciding that the alcohol has gone to his head. All he can think about is leaning over and kissing Brad.</p><p>Brad tilts his head, nodding towards a staircase. It’s not quite what Nate intended but he can’t bring himself to head off alone. Not if Brad wants to join him. They step around a few crew members and head upstairs.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The roof of the lounge has a pool at one side, shaded tables and topiaries and another bar that hasn’t been set up. The air is chilly; no one else is out there. Brad walks over to the pool. He undoes his shoes and tucks his socks in them, rolling up his pant legs to stick his feet in the cold water.</p><p>Nate follows him. He sits cross-legged, a bit back from the water. The neon lights play over Brad’s strong features.</p><p>He feels like he can breathe again out there.</p><p>Despite the view of the hills, Nate’s gaze keeps being drawn back towards Brad.</p><p>“I miss you, you know,” he says, before he can think the better of it.</p><p>Brad smiles slowly. “Not just the workouts?”</p><p>Nate can feel an answering smile curve his lips. “Maybe the runs. My morning are a bit quiet these days.”</p><p>Brad hums. “I’m still free at that time, if you want.”</p><p>“No new victim yet?”</p><p>Brad carefully keeps his eyes on the horizon. “The runs were… extra-curricular.”</p><p>Nate absorbs the information. He watches the side of Brad’s face, wishing that he could see Brad’s full expression. “What do you mean?”</p><p>A muscle in the side of Brad’s jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth. “I ran with you because I wanted to. Outside of my billable hours.”</p><p>It takes a moment to fully sink in.</p><p>“Oh,” Nate says. Hope flickers to life.</p><p>Brad turns to him, eyebrow raised, as if waiting to see what Nate would do with that information.</p><p>“If I wanted to kiss you now…?”</p><p>Brad’s line of vision drops to Nate’s lips. “That wouldn’t be unwelcome.” He glances back up, meeting Nate’s gaze steadily.</p><p>Nate shifts closer to Brad and leans in to kiss him.</p><p>He’s wanted this for so long.</p><p>At first, Nate only registers the kiss as a gentle pressure, Brad’s lips the same cool temperature as the air around them. And then Brad’s tongue gently traces Nate’s lower lip, and that draws a line of heat across the seam of his mouth. Nate makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and shifts closer, pressing slightly harder against Brad even as he lets his mouth open to Brad’s tongue. At some point, he allows himself to touch Brad too, his hands tracing the lines of Brad’s chest.</p><p>He wants to memorize the textures, the heat, the thrill of it.</p><p>Nate’s lost in the kiss, giddy as a teenager.</p><p>Nate breaks them apart with a shaky laugh. “If we keep doing this I won’t be able to walk back downstairs.”</p><p>“Would that be so bad?” Brad’s voice has gone low and soft, promising all sorts of things.</p><p>If it weren’t his future colleagues down there… Nate reluctantly has to say, “Yes—”</p><p>Brad looks away and nudges him. Nate follows Brad’s gaze to the topiaries that line one side of the rooftop. There’s not nearly enough shadows to hide them. It sends a thrill coursing through him to know what Brad’s thinking about.</p><p>Nate laughs again, almost dizzy with the possibility.</p><p>“I think we could manage something better.” He’s so happy. He feels lighter than he has in ages.</p><p>Brad leans back and finally pulls his feet from the pool.</p><p>“What are we waiting for?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Nate slides out of the limo, still feeling like an impostor as he steps onto an actual red carpet. He can’t quite believe the first few reviews that came in. The paparazzi line the walk, and there are a million flashbulbs going off in his face.</p><p>“Stay frosty,” Brad whispers, and then he’s standing up beside Nate. With Brad at Nate’s side, it’s easier for Nate to wave and smile, to stutter a few pleasantries and taglines into the microphones that get shoved in his face.</p><p>He hears Brad huff a laugh at one of the more terrible lines. Nate looks back at him and grins.</p><p>He can hear the screams wave through the crowd as he reaches back, searching for Brad’s hand. The cameras get more insistent, the flashes threatening to blind him if he looks directly at the press.</p><p>Brad seems to stay carefully out of reach. He just isn’t there where Nate expects him to be. Nate keeps a pleasant smile on his face, and tilts his head up to silently ask Brad why.</p><p>“You don’t need to do this,” Brad bends his head to whisper in Nate’s ear.</p><p>Nate smiles. He could never had made it there without Brad. He looks steadily at Brad as he threads their hands together. “I have never been more sure of anything.”</p><p>And from the sounds of the crowd it’s not hurting Nate’s image in the slightest.</p><p>
  <em>Fin.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>